Second Degree Burns
by pjstillnoon
Summary: What the mind knows, and what the heart wants are not necessarily always on the same page. She can get burnt or step into the light.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This is for Cloe83. Her prompts can be found on the forum._

**PJPJPJPJ**

_I know, through personal experience, the stages of grief. I know there are levels, processes that a person must go through. But even my 'personal' experience hasn't exactly been personal until now. Personal meant, counselling those who were grieving. Personal never meant losing someone close to me. My grandmother died when I was nine and I remember being upset and I remember going to her funeral and being sad and crying for her. I also remember that being the first time I ever saw my father cry. But grief had always been something that belonged to someone else and my understanding of it came from books; my empathy was learnt. Now at least when someone has died I can lean in to the people they leave behind and really mean it when I say 'I know what you're going through'._

_Cal looks at me differently these days. He worries about me in a way that he hasn't before. He's suddenly still. It's as if he's grieving too. But he can't be, because he didn't know Claire. Something has changed for him nonetheless and I haven't quite figured it out. To be honest, I'm too tired to. Emotionally tired. I'm trying to grieve. But I've never done it before so I'm not quite sure how to feel. I feel bad, terrible even, and I cry a lot. I allow myself too because that's healthy. If I need to cry, I should, I should let it out. That's normal. But it's been several weeks and I don't feel normal. I feel terrible._

_Cal comes periodically to talk to me, probably to check up on me and I would laugh that he's put on his 'shrink' jacket except it's more like he's trying to be a good friend. And I need it. I need him because right now I am lost and I am hurting and what I really need is some comfort. I need a hug. And I need some love. And what I really want is for someone to simultaneously hug me and tell me that it will be all right. _

_Cal hugs me. And that's nice. And it is comforting. But he doesn't tell me it will be all right. He knows better._

_I get up in the morning at the same time every day and I shower. I dress. I do my hair and my make up and make myself presentable to the day. It used to be to make myself look good, but now it's more about not looking so bad. I drink coffee, have breakfast, watch the morning news. I drive to work and I park in the same place and maybe it's the banality of my life that is somehow 'off'. Death reminds us that life is short. We don't have to get stabbed by an enraged psychopath for it to be cut off before what we would consider is right. Death puts things into a different perspective. We start to think about what we have, what we haven't got and all I can think about is how people treat each other like shit._

**PJ**

"Morning," Cal greets me and gives me a careful study. I fix him with a smile that is genuine, because I am genuinely happy to see him. He fills me in on the last few hours and from that I can deduce that he was here late and came back early. Or just slept in his study. Either way, he walks close to me as we head to my office and I can feel the warmth of his torso against my hip. When we walk like this, I manage to forget about Death and all its friends. Then I laugh to myself because I'm referencing Coldplay album titles in my head. Perhaps it's time to move on from the grieving thing. And definitely time to change the playlists on my mp3.

I give Cal's arm a squeeze as I duck into my office. "I'll catch up with you when he gets here," I tell him. Meaning, when the suspect gets here.

"Right," Cal agrees and heads across the hallway to his study.

At my desk I start with checking my email and returning calls and then Anna is knocking on my door. I give her a welcome smile; she tells me Kevin McDonald is here for interviewing. I know she means the suspect Cal was telling me about earlier. "Thanks Anna," I get up from my desk.

"They're set up in the cube."

I thank her again and head down the corridor. When I walk into the room where the cube is located I can see the glass is tinted to protect McDonald waiting inside. Outside it are Loker and another intern sitting at their consoles. A tall dark haired man in a suit is standing behind them watching the smaller monitors. I can't see Cal at all and assume he's begun, or is late showing up. I cross towards the man in his expensive suit. He's Mr Warsteiner's contact for the case. Mr Warsteiner considers himself far too important to show up and track the progress himself. His father died under suspicious circumstances. The police are having a hard time with the investigation. So the son, Maximillian, hired the Lightman Group to centre on finding the killer. At the very top of his list is Kevin McDonald; the new family lawyer. But Mr Warsteiner insists on sending along one of his 'boys' to keep an eye on things.

Mr Oranger comes to shake my hand. His eyes are an icy pale blue colour and they pierce through me. This was a man who saw a lot more than he let on. In fact, I have to suppress a shudder at the thought of what this man might have seen. The Warsteiner's were well known for making their money through illegal channels, drugs mostly, but I doubt that's all they had their fingers in. I doubt Mr Oranger's sole position with the Warsteiner's was babysitting.

"Loker can find you somewhere more comfortable to wait if you would prefer," I offer, hoping but doubting Mr Oranger will take me up on the offer. He doesn't, just politely declines. I round the edge of the cube and approach the door, forgetting to check to see where Cal is. As I come around the edge of the interrogation structure I can see Cal standing, like he's waiting and as I start to come up the stairs he spots me and hurries over. He looks worried.

"Sit this one out."

"Why?" I'm offended.

"Just," he tries to shove me out of the room again but I push into him, momentum on my side and without wanting to cause too much of a scene, he lets me.

I step up into the cube proper. The man at the table has dark hair and blue eyes and he's watching me with a painful expression on my face and all of a sudden it strikes me like a low blow of lightening: Dave.

**PJ**

I tell you what, it's bloody painful seeing her face in that moment. I realise then I should have tried harder to keep her out but the truth was, if I kicked up a fuss it would arouse suspicion not just in her, but in Mr Fruit outside too. And he looks like one scary bugger who has looked down his share of gun barrels, and been on the other side of them. Not just him, the Warnsteiner's have a fierce reputation and now that we're in the FBI's bad books it would be a good idea to just try and keep everyone on side. I took this case on thinking it would be an open and shut murder, but the more I delve, the more I get my hands dirty, the more I want a shower to wash it all way. Seeing Mr McDonald has just made that feeling stronger.

But Gillian, bless her, takes a few shaky steps forwards and sits. McDonald, or Burns, or whatever, follows her carefully and they're staring and staring at each other as if there is no one else in the room. I step up behind her, ready to break the electric connection but Gillian reaches for the file on the table and asks the first question. And if I hadn't hardened my soul against reactions out of my control, my jaw might just have dropped open in surprise. I continue to stand behind her, immensely proud.

'_Good girl_,' I tell her silently and shift my gaze to watch Burnsy's face. Or McDonald's. Bloody hell its confusing all that undercover malarkey. Burnsy looks just as stunned as she does but surely he would know where he is? He's been here before. Several times. He might not recognise their employees and they wouldn't know who he was from a bar of soap, but the building's walls haven't changed in the slightest. What was he expecting really? Maybe he thought someone would warn her to stay away. Hell, if I'd had any previous warning, I would have. But then why would anyone here have cause to recognise the name McDonald?

Burnsy is begging her with his eyes. I walk around the table slightly to see Gillian's face. She's steadfastly ignoring him. When she looks up to talk to him, her eyes are cool, her face is steady and I've never seen her try so hard to keep it all under control as I am right now. She's being a professional and whatever it is Burnsy is asking her, it goes unanswered. She gets on with the interview and so do I. Neither of us are really interested in what Burnsy has to say. We know he's not involved, but under the insistence of Mr Wanker, we've brought him in. I think fleetingly that I should have resisted harder, should have insisted Burnsy here had nothing to do with his father's death. But then, that might clue Mr Wanker up to the fact that we actually suspect it was him.

We spend half an hour with Burnsy in the cube and if I find the situation strained then Gillian must feel ten times worse. Loker is probably wondering what the hell is going on. But as Burnsy leaves with his babysitter no one says anything.

"I'll get on the footage straight away," Loker announces.

"Whip-ee," I respond hurrying to catch up to Gillian. I follow her into her office but before I can say anything she tells me she's fine. And I almost believe her. She's clearly been working on compartmentalising because I can barely see the flicker that says she's not. She watches me steadily and a million words die on my tongue to be buried alongside a billion more casualties of my silence. I want to tell her she's not fine, I want to insist she takes some time off, I want to tell her something comforting, and mostly I want to tell her that I love her like it's some kind of magical cure that will make her entire life better. But what I do, is turn and leave her office again. I promise myself I will tell her soon, when she gets over Claire's death and she's ready to deal with the fallout of my bombshell.

**PJ**

I'm pretty sure my hands are shaking. I can feel them tremoring but when I hold them out in front of me they seem to be just fine. Nice and steady. My heart isn't though. I can feel it pounding away and it's hard to tell if that's because of the sheer shock of seeing him again, or because I can still feel something for him under the surface. Suddenly everything is rushing to the forefront. Even with Cal giving me space I feel exposed. I turn away from the door, wanting to hide a little. God, Burns, no Dave. I hadn't even thought about him for months, a year at least. He must be on a new case. Obviously he was on a new case. Why else would his hair be a different colour? Why else would he be involved in yet another shitty situation with more reasons that would keep him away from me...

The phone on my desk rings, startling me out of my thoughts. A phone call would be a welcome distraction. I reach for it and answer, sounding nice and calm too.

"Gill it's me."

Oh God!

"I shouldn't talk long."

I'm pretty sure my heart has stopped beating. In the cube, I wasn't listening to him. I mean, not listening to him like I am now, alone in my office, no longer overly aware of Cal in the room with us, not having to pretend for the men outside of the room. His voice is still gravelly and the vowels run smoothly off his tongue and they make me shiver inside. I can imagine hearing that voice in the dark of my bedroom and it makes me long for something that is no longer mine.

"Have dinner with me."

I'm silent until I realise what he's asking. He's asking me to reconnect or something. "I can't."

"There's so much I want to explain to you."

"And I would love to hear your explanations," I tell him my voice strained with an anger I have tried to repress for a year. "But we're in the middle of investigating your boss. So I can't."

"My place."

"No," and I wonder if I should call him 'Dave' or 'Kevin'. "Just..." and I want to say 'not right now' or 'call me back later' but I'm not sure if I want either of those things.

"After it's all over, I'll call you again."

So he suggests both options in one smooth mouthful and I find I can't ignore either of them now that they're in front of me, so I agree, and I hang up, and I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry.

**PJPJPJPJ**


	2. Chapter 2

**PJPJPJPJ**

_Clinically, the acute symptoms of grief should last two months. Claire died a month ago. I've been angry, I've cried a lot, I haven't felt the need to bargain (with who anyway?), but I've felt the overwhelming sadness. I should be on to the acceptance part; that's the last step. But I can't quite get there. It's not that I feel like her death is personal to me, despite counselling her for years when she was just learning to be a young woman. I do feel it's a waste, not of my time and effort in helping her, I would do that all over again. But it's a waste of life. Such a cliché I know, but Claire had something to offer the world. And it was all taken away by a jealous little boy. _

_So I guess I still feel sad. I'm not depressed, this isn't getting worse. But I am definitely sad. The tears have dried up, the anger dissipated and what I'm left with is taking a good hard look at my life. Another cliché, I know. What I'm searching for is a reason to get out of bed every day. A reason. I like to think I'm helping people but I'm no longer certain of my impact. Which makes me re-evaluate what I'm doing here, with Cal, with the Lightman Group. I used to try to help people. Now why was I here?_

_Death came to shine a light into the crevices of my life I had been trying to smooth over._

**PJ**

By the end of the week Cal has Mr Warsteiner arrested for patricide and a few days after that Dave calls me back and we talk. Mostly I'm curious and cautious but he clearly has a plan because he tells me he thought of me often over the last year and he hates the way he left it and he wants to explain, to make it right with me. '_He left it_,' I correct him and he agrees. He tells me he's sure he's asking a lot but he just wants one dinner to explain, just one evening of my time, just one more moment. And what I want, is an explanation, and some time, and just one more moment.

Cal enters my office as I'm hanging up the phone. He fidgets in that way of his that means there is something on his mind. So I don't rush him, I wait for his mouth to catch up to his mind. It must be hell in there sometimes, everything rushing in a torrent of ideas, thoughts, expressions, emotions and impulses. "Who was that then?" He finally asks and we both know that he knows exactly who it was.

"Why don't you just say what you came to say so I can get on with my day?" I ask it lightly, because despite the fact that he continually infuriates me and ignores my pleas to stay out of my personal life, I can't stay mad at Cal forever. I should have said it with more aggravation in my tone, but I can't hurt Cal, not on purpose, though I'm sure some of the time I have, in fact, hurt him in my own little ways. I wonder how he knew.

His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he's wearing what has become a uniform of sorts: blue jeans, brown boots, black polo shirt. I wonder when that happened because it seems like he's been that way for a while. A uniform. Why does he need to wear a uniform? So he can take it off at the end of the day? Has he finally started to learn to 'switch off'?

"Don't go to dinner with him."

"Why not?"

"Because," and he looks up and around, pained, as if he's discovered something he doesn't like. He waves a hand, as if weighing his options, or trying to dispel the bad taste in his mouth. "We both know he can't be there for you."

"Not that it's any of your business, but that's not what dinner is about." I sit back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest, dare him to say more.

"You know you deserve more than him. You know," he waves that hand again, as if the words are so hard to find. I doubt that very much. I'd say he's planned this conversation. He bounces a little on his feet, like he is literally reaching for the words. It takes him a while and I wait. "Someone who wouldn't just..." he struggles and I'm surprised. "Someone you know."

I think he wants to say 'dependable, or 'who wouldn't just walk out, or 'who wouldn't hurt you like that' but I think he can't say those things because he's not those things either. And then my own astuteness spreads through my chest making it feel cold. I watch him and he watches me and it's like he's just waiting for me to 'get it'. But I'm tired. I'm tired of his games and I'm tired of constantly having to search. I shake my head slightly. I'm not going to play along.

"What if I took you to dinner instead?"

"What if," I repeat.

"You and me, dinner, you can just blow Burnsy off." But he knows I wouldn't do that and so he adds, "I want to take you out to dinner." And then he stands there and watches me and waits for my response.

"Did you just ask me out?" I half tease because the heaviness of the conversation is unnerving. On the tail of everything it is so very well mis-timed.

"Maybe," he responds and toes the leg of one of my guest chairs, hands still clenched in his pockets and it looks like he's holding on for dear life.

I uncross my arms and relax a little and show him that I'm not perturbed by the conversation, but neither am I engaged in it. "I'm not really in the mood for dealing in 'maybes' Cal."

"Right."

A moment's silence.

"So no to dinner?"

'_Not until you know what you want_,' I implore at him and give my head a little shake no. "I all ready have plans," I remind him gently.

"Right," he agrees and leaves again. And I feel like shit because that is just one of the little ways in which I'm sure I've hurt him.

**PJ**

It is oh such a coincidence that I happen to be near the entrance when Burnsy waltzes in to pick her up. He has flowers and a little smile on his face that I want to take great delight in wiping off. I stride up to him and he almost seems resigned and I think '_what for? What else did you expect?_' This guy has worked out I love her. Hell, even Em figured it out. And yet Gillian hasn't. How did that work?

"Is Gillian in?"

"Maybe." He tries to step around me but I'm quick and I pin him against the wall. "I'm gonna say this with the best interests at heart. Stay away from her."

"Are they her best interests or yours?"

"Hers. She's been hurt since you've been gone."

"I know," he shows shame. "I'm trying to make it up to her."

"With flowers and dinner?" I ask snidely. Gillian is a big gesture kind of woman. There has to be more. She just told me that in her office not two hours ago. I think.

Burnsy fixes me with a terribly unimpressed expression so I elaborate a little. "Life went on without you around. Other things have happened. Someone she was close to died."

"Family?" Burnsy asks.

I shake my head. "An old patient. They were close. She was murdered and Gillian found her."

_And then she called me mate, not you, but me._

Burnsy's eyes go to her office and there's concern written all over there and this line of conversation is not at all having the hoped effect. I want him to back off, not run in there to give her a hug and a shoulder to cry on. "So she doesn't need you showing up to complicate her life again," I add wishing, praying, begging he will take a hint and just bugger off again to whatever drug den he's just crawled out of.

"Don't you think that's up to her to decide?"

And I think: '_no'_.

"She's a big girl Cal. A grown woman. It shouldn't be up to you who she spends her time with."

I hate him because he can see through me. Apparently he always has. "She hasn't always made the best decisions when it comes to you."

"And she's made even worse ones when it comes to you," he says evenly.

Bastard.

For being right.

I want to argue some more, to get really personal if I have to; that's my style after all but Burnsy's eyes lose their intense focus on me and shift to something else and I know I have lost because it must be her that he's seen. All of a sudden I'm invisible. He steps around me and I let him go. I didn't play my hand right.

"Do you boys need to get a room?" Gillian asks lightly.

I hear Burnsy telling her the flowers are for her and she thanks him sweetly and pleasantly and just so damn beautifully. I watch from a distance as they're all glowing eyes and secret smiles; long lost lovers reuniting and more clichés that make me feel sick. He's picturing her naked and she's remembering all the nights she spent warm in his arms. I walk away because there is only so many kicks in the gut I can actually take.

**PJ**

He takes me to a nice restaurant and he's clean shaven and his hair is really dark making his eyes seem so much bluer. He wears a tie and makes an effort. The flowers he gives me are beautiful and smell sweet and are pink, because he knows that is my favourite colour. And while I think those things matter to me they seem like hollow actions all of a sudden. He's doing and saying all the right things, but when I look closer it's like the colours have run slightly and the picture no longer makes sense.

He orders wine, expensive, and it's so unlike anything Cal would do. All of it. All the sweetness and pulling out my chair and wine and dinner and dessert. We talk over our meals. He explains what happened that lead to him walking away. He's surprised because he figured Cal would have told me all about it and I know two reasons why he didn't; he was trying to protect me and he felt guilty about it. But with Cal his protection has also been a fine line between making me feel safe and hurting me terribly.

Dave walks me back to my car parked near the building of the Lightman Group. I thank him for dinner and state that it was a pleasant evening because it was. I have missed his company or at least, the idea of his company, because he really is a very interesting guy and kind although not soft in the way that Cal can be sometimes. Dave leans towards me and I know exactly what his intention is. I let him kiss me. He tastes sweet, like the dessert he just finished and he's familiar. A little sigh escapes me and it's all just so _nice_.

**PJPJPJPJ**


	3. Chapter 3

**PJPJPJPJ**

_Is it possible to grieve for something you never have? Because I feel like I'm grieving. I feel like I've lost something that I never had the courage to voice and lay claim to. My chest feels heavier and the most stupidest desire to cry comes over me. It's so silly I can't even believe myself. I haven't told her anything and she hasn't said 'no' to anything. But the very act of her going to dinner with him makes me feel betrayed, jealous, so very incredibly sad with a loss of... her. _

_Except she isn't gone and this isn't even a logical train of thought. _

_Em asked me what I was waiting for and I answered with 'I don't have an answer to that love'. It was cowardly and when I realise that I realise that I am, in fact, a coward. Just like my father was. I worry about being like him. I might not drink (at least to excess every day, let's be realistic) and smack my kid or my wife about, but I'm still a coward just like that bastard. I'm afraid, too afraid to tell her, to take a chance. It goes beyond fearing I might hurt her, or that I could destroy her. I'm simply afraid to take that first risk, and it makes me sick._

_I should go home, really, because this is absolute insanity and self-inflicted torture, but I stand in my office and I look down on her car and I wait. I wait for her to come back. It might be the alcohol that makes me feel suddenly so watery. My chest constricts painfully as the hours tick by and she still doesn't come back. And I'm torn between believing that she will come back for her car and she's gone home with him. I make myself a deal as I finish my second nip of scotch, if she comes back to her car tonight, I will go down and tell her everything. _

**PJ**

He presses his lips against mine and it's all so familiar and nice but that's just the problem. It's nice. It's sweet and it's warm but it's nothing like kissing Cal. The thought surprises myself and I pull away from Dave.

"I missed you Gill. Did you miss me?" He asks against my lips and it's clear he's all ready a million steps ahead of me.

I'm not sure I even respond. My heart is pounding and it's not entirely a good thing. But I don't want him to do it again. I'm pretty sure about that. "I can't do this."

"I know I hurt you."

"I-I-I need someone more dependable, reliable. Someone I won't worry about getting killed." But it's not entirely about him, there are other things in my head when I try to explain.

"Please tell me you're not describing _him_."

'_Him_,' I think, knowing he's talking about Cal but also wondering how it could be that Cal is on his mind. And then I realise that the two are very similar. Cal isn't any more reliable or dependable or less likely to get himself killed. But at least Cal didn't lie to me about his name. He still tried to hide from me but he had never tried to be someone else, he has never hidden who he is on a fundamental level. Cal is Cal. You take him as he is or leave him. So many people leave him. And there was every chance he could get himself killed and I would have no idea where he is... but the difference is... what is the difference? Oh yeah, Cal has never _abandoned_ me.

"You're in love with him aren't you?" Dave accuses and although his face is hidden by shadows strung across the road by streetlights, I can hear the hurt and thinly veiled anger in his tone. I'm so stunned by his comment, his question, the blame he lays on me I mentally stumble. I have no idea what to say to that, not even the compo menses to form an objection. I gawp and he sighs heavily and I stare, trying to engage my brain.

**PJ**

A car pulls up and I drain the last of my scotch and look down again and yes, it's them. They're back and so I guess the game is up. I turn and put the tumbler down on my desk and screw the lid back on the bottle. I grab my coat as I head out of my office and with each step I feel the heavy affect of the booze. Perhaps I should have stayed clean for this confession? Who the hell am I kidding? I need the Dutch courage.

I take the lift down, hating how long it seems to be taking and half hoping she's still there but also secretly hoping she's gone. Of course if I get down there and find they've both gone... actually it doesn't bare thinking about. I slip my coat on as I push through the outside doors because I can see it has started raining. I come around the corner of the building and I'm running now because all of a sudden I'm desperate to tell her, to change her mind, to make her want me, not Burnsy. Her car is still there and I'm so relieved I almost trip up over my own feet.

I rush across the footpath and the road and as I reached the front of her car Burnsy pulls past me in his. His glare is unmistakable through his driver's window but I give it nothing more than a glance. I don't really give a toss about him. He's not exactly on top of my 'to deal with' list. I can see Gillian sitting behind the wheel and I quickly skirt around her car to drop into the passenger seat heavily. She doesn't look at me and it's hard to see her face in the shadows of artificial lighting. And after the minute it took me to cross the road where I actually felt confident in what I was doing, to here, sitting beside her in the semi-darkness, I'm worried again.

"Gill," I prompt her that I'm here and that I want to talk. She doesn't look at me as she asks me what I want and all of a sudden it's right here in my face and I want to back down. I swallow nervously. "How was your date?"

But she must realise that I was watching her from upstairs and waiting for her to get back, so then surely she must also know I don't know what happened after they got out of the car? Suddenly I'm hypersensitive. What happened once she got out of the car? She probably thinks I'm being a pillock again. Never ceases to amaze me how often that happens. Eighty percent of the time it is self-inflicted and then I guess the other twenty percent she just comes to expect it of me.

She looks over at me and her gaze is a fatigued wither. "What did you want Cal?" She asks again. "I'd like to go home now."

I want to tell her to take me too, that I'd make her feel better, run her a bath, make her a hot chocolate, rub her feet, whatever, I don't care, anything to be closer to her. I'd do anything to take it just one step further with her; I need it. The rain makes kaleidoscopic patterns on the window behind her. It's hard to read her face but I can still tell she's not exactly flipping out about her evening. It feeds a little bit of much needed hope to my hungry anxiety.

"I'm not sure if I was clear before," I begin, feeling my stomach constrict.

"About what?" She asks neutrally.

"In your office."

She shifts her shoulders slightly as if they are tense.

I tell myself not to chicken out. I struck a deal and I always try to keep my word. I take a deep breath and hope that what I have to say doesn't destroy us forever. I wait too long and it is as if she has lost interest. Words have never been so hard to say. I've never been so afraid of someone before. I am too aware of how poignant this moment really is. The rain starts to fall harder, beating out a tempo as rapid as my heart.

"What we talked about in your office," I try again and I hope she knows what I'm on about. I detect the slightest nod from her and I plunge on, talking rubbish, rambling, muttering, getting nowhere near the point. I talk around it, over it, under it and finally come to confront it headlong. It's easier to say now that I've warmed up. "Cos, you see, the thing is, I love you." And it's like the rain has stopped all of a sudden, even though it hasn't, and it's like I've shouted the words into a silent car.

What I would love is to be confident, to say the words like I own them and they're mine and I'm not afraid. I wish I didn't look at her so desperately, searching for a reaction, a favourable reaction would be preferred. What I'd like to do at this point is kiss her, because quite frankly, I've fantasised about it for god damn years but what I do instead is try to explain. This is not a game, this is not me trying to ruin our friendship, this is me trying to be honest with her and myself. This is me begging her not to date Burnsy again (or any other man for that matter).

This is me asking her if she feels the same way. This is me asking her if she could love me too. This is me asking if I haven't ruined 'us' beyond repair. This is me asking her to give me a chance.

**PJ**

The sheer desperation in his voice just about kills me. The earnest expression on his face makes me want to hug and comfort him. His choice of words rattle my soul. And I have no idea what to say to him. Even though he's sitting there waiting and he's explained it so thoroughly, all those moments and why and how he came to realise. It's just so heart achingly beautiful. I'm crying anyway but I just wish he had told me all of this under different circumstances. Why tonight of all the nights? Why this night in particular? What was different about this night? This very moment? Why did he have to do this _right now_?

Dave.

Was he watching from his window? How much did he see? Did he see Dave kiss me? Was this whole confession fuelled by jealousy? I don't want it if it was simply because his hand was forced. And then oh god! Something else hits me, a memory and I tease it out in my mind until I remember fully. When Dave had been kidnapped and tortured and he accused Cal of wanting me. I wanted to believe Cal had been lying, playing the game, just like he always does. But now, in this light, maybe I can see he wasn't.

Of course he wasn't, he was admitting that to me right now. He loved me. And it wasn't that I didn't believe him it was just that... "I can't deal with this right now Cal." I tell him gently, so gently, because I don't want to hurt him, I really don't. I know he will be hurt.

He sits back abruptly.

"The timing is really not very good," I add, trying to implore but what else can I say? I can't tell him the truth. I don't even know what the truth is yet. There are too many fractured thoughts to put straight in my head. This car has never been more claustrophobic. And I have never seen Cal so devastated. He does a terrible job of trying to hide it.

"All right," he announces all of a sudden, his voice raw, he avoids my face. He reaches for the door but I'm too slow to stop him. I press the button to lower my window, desperately wanting it to retreat faster but Cal jogs away and across the road into the pouring rain.

"Cal!" I call after him. He either ignores me or my voice is lost to the sound of the sky sobbing. I debate going after him. But still, what am I going to say if I pin him down? All I can think is, why are you doing this now?

**PJPJPJPJ**


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: the list is for Endless from her prompt on the forum._

**PJPJPJPJ**

_I have grieved for only a few things in my life. My little Pug when I was growing up, hit by a car in the dead of the night. I woke to find her on the doorstep. She had crawled her way across the road with a broken back just to be close to me. That was also the first time I realised love could be unconditional. It didn't matter that I teased her with a stick, pulled her tail, dressed her in my old clothes, dangled her bone above her head until she did a trick for it. Her love was unconditional._

_My mother when she died. Self-explanatory. Except in her case I started to believe love _was_ conditional. You really only could push someone to an imaginary point before they crossed it and never came back. My mother's death taught me a lot about myself, but that's beside the point right here. The point is, I learnt that until you dealt, grieved, and let it out, that kind of agony would form a home in your heart and live there quite peacefully until something aggravated it and it all came out. _

_I know Gillian is grieving. Logically, clinically, I can make that deduction. But I can also _see_ it. In her eyes mostly, but in the corners of her smile and the shadows of her heart. It's lurking through her very soul and I'm trying to do the right thing by her. She's a physical person and so I hug her. She's a private person and so I give her space. But in doing that I knocked on the door of grief in my own heart. _

_Grief makes you do stupid things. I saw her with Burns and grief reared his ugly little mug. It was supposed to be my turn. Grief tapped on my shoulder and reminded me that it was meant to be my turn. Grief took my thoughts and rearranged them into a new order. It pointed out a new logic, a new desperation, a new way of seeing my life. And it made me do something really, very stupid._

**PJ**

Shots fired. I find the nearest pub and do vodka shots, because when I want to get pissed I have to drink something I'm not all ready used to. The bar tender lets me do four successively then pours me a beer. He should have probably given me a bag of crisps. I know beer's meant to be a meal and all but that's pushing the envelope. I ask for a shot of whiskey as a chaser and he complies and while I down it I wonder at the density of some people. Now I've managed to mix four different kinds of alcohol all in one evening.

All of a sudden the room is kind of swaying around a bit and I don't like the look of the guy down the bar. He glares at me, I'm pretty sure, but when I approached and ask him what his problem is he just mutters and moves away. But I don't like that either so I follow him and I'm not even entirely sure of what I say when I'm saying it. Something about him not liking foreigners and he should get used to it because this was America! The next thing I'm aware of is the bartender's hands on my upper arms as he throws me out.

I stagger along the pavement, my boots scraping against damp concrete and my hands flailing around for something solid to hang on to. That's when I can start to feel something else. A pain in my chest. I start to choke on it and as I gasp for air crouched down behind a car on the street I finally acknowledge it for what it is. Soul shattering grief. I try to suck in air around it but it's rammed in their good and hard and I had no idea the rejection would hurt so damn much!

I never thought I would fall this hard for her and I never thought I would let myself get so emotionally vulnerable. I gag on that idea too and it manifests as bile in the back of my throat. As my father always said, better out than in, and I hurl up into the gutter, on my knees, crouching on a cold and wet street, reduced to bitter unreasonable tears and other burning sensations, brought about by the action of my stomach upending. I'm not crying.

I know whose fault this is.

I wipe my mouth, stagger to my feet again, have a hard time trying to put the key in the lock because it's dark. I get behind the wheel and peel away from the curb. I head across the city. I'm going to give her a piece of my mind. She won't get away with it. I'll make sure of it. I've always let her get away with it. She's been playing me for years. More than that. Forever. Since we met. It's not in my head that this isn't a good idea. That it will severely damage a carefully balanced world.

It's also not in my head that I can't see because I'm not wearing my glasses. And I'm driving more pissed than a fart. And the roads are wet.

**PJ**

Why do this now? Why not tell me after my divorce, or after Dave, or before Dave for that matter. Cal always had perfect timing for questions and quips. Why couldn't that extend to his personal life too? Why did he always decide that the worst possible moment for everyone else was in fact the best possible moment for him?

I drive home with thoughts like that racing through my head. It's not like Cal has ever been at a loss for words and the reasons why he loves me wash over me again and again, like soothing caressing waves, as if my head is trying to tell my heart that it's ok. That this is all ok. It's not ok. It's complicated beyond belief. And I swing between the hot shock and incredulity and cooling caress of his accent.

You're loyal Gill, despite every way I try you.

You have a beautiful intelligence.

You challenge me like no one else.

You anchor me so I stay on this side of the sanity.

You look stunning in red.

You keep my secrets.

You're not afraid to tell me when I'm off the mark.

You take care of me even when I think I don't need it.

Your integrity is unwavering.

You're unconditional.

'_That's the best thing, you're unconditional, you're kind unconditionally, you're firm unconditionally, you're loyal unconditionally, you keep my secrets unconditionally. You're my best friend unconditionally_.'

I pull into my drive, not sure I'm quite believing what my own ears heard just fifteen minutes ago.

'_You look stunning red_.'

I mean, I saw him looking, but I hadn't known he had been really _looking_. I just thought it was Cal being Cal, Cal being a male. But no, he was looking ,admiring, he loved my freckles and the colour of my eyes and my legs. It makes me feel warm inside thinking about it. It's not that I dress for him; but it doesn't hurt that he noticed!

Maybe Cal _is_ that reason to get out of bed every day. Actually, he has been for years, especially after my divorce. But the reasons have changed over the years. At first it was because I wanted to learn from him. Then I wanted to make our business work. Then it was because we had become friends. Years later, being divorced, and knowing him too damn well, I got out of bed every day to show him I was fine. It was defiance with his name on it. He wouldn't let me see when he was hurting, I wouldn't let him see either.

'_I love you_.'

A shiver runs through me as I make my way inside my home and I'm back to wondering how on earth I could make it work with him. When I feel like this. When I feel... so... lost to be honest. Confused. Overwhelmed. I feel unconditional. Like I should be with him unconditionally and that his statement should have a complication free answer. But then there's Dave and he represents too many different possibilities for me to throw away so easily. I loved Dave; he's a beautiful man too. Intelligent, kind, confident but vulnerable. And Cal is those things too. So what's the difference between Cal and Dave?

**PJ**

When I think back on the events that lead me to right here, I can concede that I had in fact, had more than four shots of vodka. Which probably explains the most idiotic decision I've made of my life. No really, hands down idiotic. That was over an hour ago and I'm all ready here now so a little introspection couldn't hurt me anymore could it?

I drove my drunk as a skunk arse over to Zoe's place. I thank god right now that Emily wasn't home to witness it. I said things, really terrible awful fucking things. She should have shot me. She rang the police. I screamed at her that I hated her, that she had ruined me for all other women from here until the end of time. I told her that she wasn't even half the woman Gillian was. I told her I wished we hadn't met. Give me the gun, I'll just shoot myself now.

My head kills me two fold. Far too much alcohol for one liver to process and also, the dent across my hairline and temple from the officer's baton. To be fair, I did deserve it. A lot. He should have tazered me too, maybe kicked me around a bit more. I can't feel my nose. He did me a favour and smashed that last, into the back of the cop car as he cuffed me.

As I rapidly sober minute by minute, I'm beyond disgusted with myself. Zoe, the mother of my child, who has put up with shit from me second only to Gillian, is probably grateful as sin right now that she divorced my sorry arse. And Gillian. I can only thank that deity again that I didn't have the presence of mind to drive over to _her_ house and scream crazy shit at her. I'm sure that really would have endeared me to her.

I can feel my nose oozing again. The police have kindly given me a toilet roll to clean my bull shit up with. I wipe gently and throw another wad of bloodied goop into the loo against the wall. I can't smell jack right now but I'm pretty sure if I could I would be hanging over the edge of the rim. Drunk tanks at two am are not pleasant, no matter what county gaol you're in. There are three other bodies in here; one of them clearly homeless. There are suspicious coloured puddles on the ground. Deity, if you're listening, thank you for letting me be the only one currently conscious.

The worst thing about sobering up is thinking coherently again. Thinking about the regret of ingesting too much alcohol: never good. Thinking about the dumb shit things I've done tonight: bloody god damn fucking awful. Remembering confessing to Gillian: humiliating as old hell. Remembering her rejection: hurt like a mother fucker. The things I said to Zoe: nauseating. Having to ring Eli Bloody Loker to bail me about because I'd all ready managed to alienate the top two tiers of my phone tree in the space of two and a half hours? Just plain embarrassing.

I groan when I realise myself loathing tirade becomes a master card ad. So fucking pathetic, I tell myself. No wonder she doesn't want me. No wonder neither of them do.

There's a sudden rap of a stick on the bars and I jump back and simultaneously want to hurl and pass out from the pain. I'm allowed to go home. Eli drives me. He's surprised and he watches me and I just know he is barely containing the interrogation he has, by rights, earned on this occasion. But he does me a small mercy and keeps his trap shut. I transfer the bail money back into his account as he pulls into my drive way. I even manage to mutter a thanks before I get out. And then I go home and it's dark and the silence welcomes me in, a welcome friend at the end of what is quite possibly the longest and most complex stunt I've ever pulled.

**PJPJPJPJ**

I'm talking to Eli and Ria when Cal comes in late the next day. It's Ria who spies him first and her mouth hangs open in her consciously displayed shock. I turn to watch Cal skirt around the edge of the break room and continue on to his office. And then my mouth hangs open.

"Did you see that?" Ria asks excitedly.

Eli quips that Cal's in a suit. Ria asks what that's all about and looks to me. "I don't know," I reply softly reaching out to put my coffee down on the nearest hard surface. Ria turns to Eli and I belatedly realise he knows something about it. Too bad I'm all ready out the door. I may as well get it from the source.

I burst into Cal's office and expect to find him at his desk but he's actually across the room lying on the couch. He glances at me and then brings his hands up to cover his face. It's not like I haven't seen him black and blue before but after last night, dread makes me close the door, cross the room and ask him what happened. What the hell had he gotten up to after he left me?

"Go away."

"Why?" I demand. "Because I told you something you didn't want to hear?"

"No, I've got a bloody headache."

He sounds pitiful and as always I feel sorry for him and I wonder when this dance will ever end. I kneel down next to him and gently pry his hand away and I can see he has two black eyes, probably a broken nose and a large gash on his forehead. I'm shocked to see the damage. He's been beaten, broken before, but not to this extent. He stares back at me with baleful hazel eyes and I realise this is probably the most emotionally empty I've seen him too. Somewhere akin to when Zoe left him but different this time. Something is different with him.

Without realising what I'm doing initially I'm caressing his hand. I like it and he seems to relax a little as we stare at each other. "Did you see a doctor?"

"Nope."

"Did you talk to the police? I assume this is someone else's handiwork?" I think about going to get ice but it seems more important to stay with him.

"This is their handiwork love."

And I'm immediately back to wondering what the hell he had gotten up to after he left me last night. Clearly he had been drinking. And clearly he had gotten himself into trouble. I wonder why I didn't get a phone call to bail him out. If the police broke his nose and smashed his head he would almost certainly have been arrested. Where was my three am phone call asking to be bailed out?

"It's all right," he tells me. He made phone calls that morning. No one's pressing charges. It goes not further than the blood that was all ready spilt. He was going to have to do more to make it right, he adds, but he will get there and suddenly I realise he's not just talking about the trouble he got himself into, he's talking to me too. A look passes between us like they orchestrate on television shows.

"I thought about last night a lot," I start.

"Well that's nice."

"Don't be snide," I smack his arm with my other hand.

"Sorry. It just falls out sometimes."

I give a little sigh, "I know."

"I really am sorry," Cal gives me an earnest expression.

"I know."

"No I mean for all of it. All of it."

His eyes bore into mine and I have no idea what he's talking about specifically but somehow I understand, if I want to, that he means for _all_ of it. And it strikes me then what the difference between Cal and Dave is. Cal has always been there for me when I needed him; especially when I needed him so badly. He never abandoned me. No matter how rough our lives have gotten. And he was sorry. He just apologised to me. Dave never apologised about what happened between us. He was 'take me as I am, or leave me' and Cal was 'this is how I am, can you love me despite it? Please?' It was that fine line between strong and bull headed, and vulnerable and humble that was so loveable.

"Cal," I refocus the both of us. "What you told me in the car last night. Thank you for that. That was quite possibly the sweetest thing I've ever heard. But I also meant what I said. I can't do this right now. It's too soon after..." I trail off and I add 'everything' pretty lamely. I might have thought about it a lot but that didn't mean that I had come to any conclusions.

He holds my gaze. But his face remains peaceful. Not closed off but not exactly open. He gives my hand a slight squeeze and I think he might have nodded but I'm not sure. "You got any Advil love? My head is killing me."

I smile and I get up and say that I do. I go to my purse and I come back with water and everyone in the building is miraculously busy with something else. He takes the little white pills from my hand and sips the water.

"Cal?" I want to be clear.

"Yes love?" He winces.

"Just... hold on ok?"

He looks up at me for a long time and then this time, I'm sure of it, he does nod. And just like that we're back to waiting an indeterminate amount of time for a deadline assigned by no one.

**PJPJPJPJ**

_AN: this was a collaboration piece with Muse. The initial idea was Cloe's and I came to Muse and asked her what she thought of the brief story outline I had hashed out in my head. She tweaked it here and there and of course, read as I went along, came up with the summary, and some gold, and here we are. Thank you Muse. Love you xxx_


End file.
